


Compulsion

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:24:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Come at me then,” he says. “Come, make me yours.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Compulsion

He's busy being compelling when he notices it.

Notices Coward. Notices Coward, smiling. Notices Coward, smiling at someone else, someone not him, smiling at some barely out of boyhood lord, smiling at him in a manner that is _not_ simply politeness or friendliness. Smiling at him like, like - _touching_ him, even, laying a hand on his shoulder so causally, no, no, of course it's not out of place, it's not blatant, but he _knows_ Coward, he knows...

Coward's head turns, slightly, and their eyes catch; there's a moment where Blackwood waits for Coward to flush, for his head to drop, for him to leave off and come to heel.

Coward looks at him. Turns back to his conversation.

Blackwood can barely see beyond the tide of rage that rises within – but no, no, he will not risk the goodwill of these men simply to discipline a wayward possession. As much as he may hate it, for the moment he needs these men, needs the power they represent. For the moment.

But later, Coward will pay.

*

He catches Coward's elbow as he leaves; “Come with me,” he tells him, shortly. Coward obliges. They share a short, silent carriage ride to Coward's townhouse; he much prefers it over his own, in terms of comfort, in terms of reminding Coward of his place, among his own things, where he _should_ be master. Coward turns to him in the hall, raises an eyebrow, and Blackwood shakes his head. “No,” he says. “The study.”

He pours himself a glass from Coward's good stock, takes a sip and stares at Coward.

“What,” he asks, “were you doing?”

Coward blinks at him, off balance for a moment. “I beg your pardon?”

“What,” he repeats, “were you doing. With that man.”

Coward looks at him as though he's said something particularly strange. “I was talking to him. We were discussing-”

“You do not do that.” Coward's head jerks up. “You do not converse with such enthusiasm with other men, you do not smile at them like that, or stand so close, or touch them. You do not flirt.”

“And what,” Coward breathes, “gives you any right to say what I shall do with another person?”

Blackwood's fingers tighten on his glass. “Because you are _mine_.”

Coward _laughs_. “A fuck or two and a close working relationship does not make me yours!”

Blackwood throws his glass at Coward, the liquor spraying across Coward's jacket. “You are mine because I say you are!” Coward jerks in startlement, but stiffens. He strides forward, pokes Coward in the chest sharply. “You are mine because I have made you so. You are mine; mine, mine, mine,' each word accentuated with another jab.

Again, Coward laughs. Blackwood hits him, snaps his head to the side. Coward doesn't stop laughing, so he hits him again, and this time, Coward stops laughing, but oh, he grins at Blackwood with bloody teeth. “I am not yours,” he says. “I am no man's possession, least of all yours, you filthy half breed.”

“What I take is mine, forever after,” Blackwood snarls, and Coward snarls back, just as harsh; Blackwood tires of this game and closes with him, shoves him back against the wall and presses against him, pins his wrists, kisses Coward and whispers against his lips, _mine mine mine mine_.

Coward bites him.

Blackwood rears back, surprised, and Coward lunges at him, hands curled into claws, teeth still bloodied and laughing, snarling like some animal, knocks him right over and straddles him. “I’m not yours,” he says. “I’m not yours – you've done nothing to make me yours, you've given me nothing in return to make me acquiesce, you couldn't make me yours if you tried.” Blind rage sears Blackwood; Coward's done nothing to restrain him, and he reaches upward with every intention of doing just that, making Coward his, _his_. Coward laughs and leans back, spreads his hands. “Come at me then,” he says. “Come, make me yours. Show me in what pitiful way you might dream to posses me. Come.”

Blackwood stares up at him, stares at his blood smeared mouth and his half crazed eyes, and his hauteur, and thinks, _this man has no fear of me_. It is a novelty. Everyone he has met has some small, often well hidden but always present, fear of him. Not Coward – Coward dares him to do his worst, dares him to try, is so confident that Blackwood will fail. It is a novelty.

He likes novelty. Finds he doesn't want to make Coward fearful, that he likes the gleam of madness in him. Ignores that he might not be able to make Coward fearful, and in his hesitation, Coward strikes. Darts forward and kisses him, hungrily, then bites his lip again, and leaps to his feet, standing over Blackwood, staring down at him. Taps a foot. “I am not yours,” he says. “Get out.”

Turns, and leaves.

Blackwood hesitates for a second, half compelled to follow Coward, to catch him and destroy that pride, decimate that defiance. Hesitates. Gathers himself together and leaves instead.

Feeling fear is also a novelty. One is he is far less enamored of.


End file.
